When my sister was looking for a kitten, we went and saw a litter of Bengal kittens.
We entered the home, and my sister, father and I were struck by the disarray. There were newly patched holes on the wall, and what little furniture there was had claw marks. They had a surfboard propped up so that the stairs were impassible. Odd, thought we.
The poor 8 week old kittens were being kept in a wire dog crate, and their sad mewls made all of us think that this woman was perhaps a psycho animal torturer. In a stoic sort of way, she said, "I guess you'll be wanting me to let them out, then."
We nodded, and she did. Within an instant, the kittens had scattered. Two of them made it up to the top of the drapes, and were scuttling along the curtain rod. One of them was on the mantle, some how. One was clawing it's way up the surfboard, leaving little grooves. One was pin-balling from person to person, claws out. It was complete chaos. Total insanity.
The woman explained that the holes were from when one of the kittens escaped into the attic, and fell into the wall. They had to punch 6 or 7 holes before they found him. That's why the surfboard was up.
We met the mother cat, and she was quite sweet. Then the woman asked her 16 year old, burly son to come downstairs.
He cautiously paused on the landing. "What?"
"Go get Mozart."
He paled. "You do it."
"They want to see the father. Go get Mozart."
"No."
"Just do it."
"No."
They had an eye-locked battle of will, and the son caved. He hopped over the surfboard, and went through the laundry room, into the garage.
There was a slow growing grrRRR-RRRAWWWRRRR, like a motorized leopard being wound up to alert us of a bombing, and the son slammed himself back into the laundry room.
"Mozart doesn't want to come out."
He bolted back upstairs.
The woman, flustered, laughed, and said, "Well, uh, I guess we won't be meeting him. Could you help me gather the kittens?"
45 minutes later, we were able to leave.
My sister now owns a Scottish fold.